Helbye’s jaw dropped. “Is that it? Is there nothing more that needs to be done?”
“Nothing,” said Adrian, still smiling. “Your marriage to her was the first one, and will stand over the second in any court of law and before God. I will give you the relevant documentation this evening.”
“Useful, this business of writing,” said Geoffrey to his sergeant. “But what about your wife’s other husband? What will become of him?”
“Norbert?” asked Helbye’s wife carelessly. “Oh, he will manage, I expect.”
“Not Norbert, the scribe?” asked Geoffrey. “My father’s clerk?” He recalled the forlorn figure standing away from the celebrations when Helbye had returned, his face masked in shadow.
“That’s the one,” said Helbye. “Norbert has always had an eye for her. The day I left for the Crusade, he told me that he would marry her if I failed to return, cheeky beggar! He was always hanging around our house, trying to get glimpses of her.”
“And I suppose this is why you are always so suspicious of reading and writing,” asked Geoffrey. “Because Norbert is a scribe?”
“Not at all,” objected Helbye. “Writing is the Devil’s skill, and only the Devil’s minions learn it.”
“Devil’s minions like Father Adrian and me?” asked Geoffrey. He continued when he saw Helbye’s embarrassment. “So, did you not want me to write to your wife in case Norbert read it?”
Helbye scratched his head. “I did not like the thought of her going to him to have it read. Who knows what price he might have extracted for such a service?”
“Will Helbye!” exclaimed the priest, laughing. “Norbert is not like that! He is a good enough man, and would never have made such a bargain.”
“And I can assure you I would not have paid such a price,” said Helbye’s wife stiffly. “I would have gone to Father Adrian to have it read, anyway.”
They walked back through the churchyard, Geoffrey listening with half an ear to the good-humoured banter between Helbye and his wife. Poor Norbert, he thought, abused by Godric and his unpleasant household, and thwarted in love by Helbye’s unexpected return.
“There is that Mark Ingram,” said Helbye’s wife, pointing across the street. “He has been in the tavern asking all sorts of questions, I am told.”
“What sort of questions?” asked Adrian.
“Questions about Enide Mappestone,” she answered. “He seems to have it in his head that the poachers were not the ones who killed her.”
“And what business is it of his?” asked Geoffrey, watching the young soldier slink along the main road in the direction of his home. Ingram, aware that he was being watched, turned, and stared back insolently before continuing on his way.
“Charming,” said Helbye. “I thought his temper might improve once he was home, but evidently I am mistaken.”
“I must go,” said Adrian. “Old Mistress Pike has asked for last rites, and there is sickness in the tinker’s family. Then I must try to persuade Walter to mend the roofs on the dairymen’s cottages, because they will not survive another downpour. If he will not pay, I will have to sell the church silver to buy new thatching.”
He nodded to Geoffrey, and set off up the main street. Helbye watched him go.
“Father Adrian is a good man,” he said. “He works among the poor and the sick, and he is never afraid he might catch something himself. If Walter will not give him the money for his cottages, perhaps I will offer him some of my treasure.”
“But Walter should pay,” said Geoffrey. “He is the landlord.”
“I doubt he will,” said Helbye’s wife. “No money for repairs has been forthcoming since Sir Godric fell ill. Walter is a skinflint!” She ignored Helbye’s warning elbow in her ribs. “I do not care, Will. Sir Geoffrey should know the truth! His brother is making people’s lives a misery. Look at poor Caerdig of Lann Martin, struggling to keep his villagers fed, while Walter and Henry demand high tolls each time anyone crosses the Wye! It is disgraceful!”
She turned on her heel and strode off after Adrian. After a moment of indecision, Helbye flung Geoffrey an apologetic look and hurried after her. Geoffrey rubbed the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he should have considered more carefully when he so cavalierly dismissed the notion of taking loot to his family. Goodrich Castle was clearly in need of repair, as attested by the crumbling battlements he had seen the night before, and the village was shabby and unkempt.
“Barlow!” he yelled, seeing his other man-at-arms strolling down the main street, resplendent in a new cloak and fine boots. “Where can I find a man called Ine?”
“Your father’s servant?” asked Barlow, walking across to him. “He lives at the castle, but at this time of day, you will find him in the tavern. Your father is mean with his wages, and so Ine is forced to boost them by washing plates in the mornings.”
“Thank you,” said Geoffrey, wondering if there were a living soul anywhere in England who had a good word to say for his family-other than Adrian who, it seemed, had a good word for anyone.
The tavern was a single-roomed building at the far end of the village, with a filthy beaten-earth floor and grimy horn windows. It was chilly, and the small fire in the hearth that hissed and smoked from the wet wood did little to alleviate the cold but a good deal to reduce visibility. Geoffrey coughed, his eyes watering at the burning wood, and looked for Ine.
Leaning over a bucket of cold water in one corner was a tall, thin man with a bad complexion. He was taking greasy plates from a pile on a table, dunking them in the water, and then redistributing the remaining food with a dirty rag. Geoffrey went to sit next to him.
“Ale?” Ine asked. Without waiting for Geoffrey’s answer, he went to fetch it, returning in a few moments with a large cup containing ale that was unexpectedly good.
“You are Ine?” asked Geoffrey, watching as the man dipped his cold, red hands back into the pail of scummy water.
“Yes, and you are Geoffrey Mappestone. You want to ask me if your father is being poisoned.”
“Is he?”
“Ask the physician,” said Ine, still not looking up. “He is away in Rosse today, but he will be back tomorrow.”
“I am asking you,” said Geoffrey, taking a long draught of the ale.
“I do not answer questions about that, said Ine. “As I have already told your man.”
“My man? You mean Mark Ingram?” asked Geoffrey. “He asked you about Godric?”
“You know he did,” said Ine, looking up for the first time, “because you told him to. But I know nothing of any poison. I told Ingram, and now I am telling you: I tasted all Sir Godric’s food and his wine, but you can see that I am fit and well, and I am sure it contained nothing to make him ill. I know nothing more.”
“Why are you afraid?” asked Geoffrey. “Is someone threatening you?”
“No,” said Ine. “The Mappestones barely speak to me, and Sir Godric only addresses me in curses. None of them waste their time threatening the likes of me. But Goodrich Castle is an evil household, and the quicker I can escape from it the better.”
“I know the feeling,” agreed Geoffrey. “But in what way is it evil?”
Ine shuddered. “I could not say-only that it has an atmosphere of wickedness about it.”
This line of discussion was going to get him nowhere. Geoffrey changed the subject. “What about the death of Torva? Was that an accident, as everyone believes? Or was it more sinister?”
“Torva drank heavily each night,” said Ine. “And the drawbridge across the castle moat is in poor repair. It was clear someone was going to fall off it at some point. It just happened to be Torva.”
“Do you believe his death was an accident, then?” persisted Geoffrey.
Ine shrugged. “Perhaps it was, perhaps it was not. But Torva was a man who asked a good many questions-because he wanted the reward Godric offered him if he could discover who was the poisoner.”